Westbound
by Katie-Mariie
Summary: Hooper goes out to Jersey on a booty call and meets some interesting folk. SLASH HoopBanky, DanteRandal, BrodieT.S. Steve-DaveWalt, JayBob.


Title: Westbound, Leave the Motor Running 'Cause I'm on the Run   
  
Author: Katie  
  
E-mail: meboja90@yahoo.com  
  
Fandom: Askewniverse; Post-Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back  
  
Pairings: Banky/Hooper, Dante/Randal, Brodie/T.S., Walt/Steve-Dave, mild Azrael/Metatron, Jay/Silent Bob  
  
Rating: R for sexual innuendo, swearing, mild violence, and racial slurs.  
  
Summary: Hooper finds himself in the big, scary suburbs on Banky's booty call. He meets some interesting characters on the way over. This is my first Askewniverse fic, so please be kind.  
  
Archival: To lists. Anywhere else, drop me a line.  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters below. They belong to Kevin Smith. I do not own Lucky Boys Confusion, but I do own two of their CDs.  
  
Warning: Profanity. I use potty words, including a few of the big bads (fag, fuck, nigger, and limey.)   
  
A/N: This started as a drabble for Charlie's Not-So-Secret-Santa, but a trip to ORP's list popped a plot bunny the size of the Governator's plastic smile. This fic is in the name of Charlie and ORP (http://orp.deep-ice.com). Also, the title comes from Lucky Boys Confusion's "Hey Driver" off of their new CD "Commitment," which is in stores now. Yes, I am their pimp. "...Long Beach and Compton..." the hometowns of rappers Snoop Dogg and Dr. Dre, respectively. Yes, I'm an old school fanatic. "The eerie farmer... a friend of a friend-- a scarecrow," this is an attempt at subtle humor, as Hooper is a "friend of Dorothy" and so is the Scarecrow from the "Wizard of Oz." That whole section is homage to the modern monster movie, "Jeepers Creepers." You'll see it. "...'snoo'" Nothing. What's new with you?  
  
===  
  
6:00  
  
Hooper was just about to settle down with his bowl of popcorn and the "What's Happenin'!!" DVD's he got from eBAY, when his pager emitted the shrillest noise known to man. After searching the entire flat for the device, it showed up on his left pocket. He flipped of the cover, letting the message "2424242233," which decoded meant, "XXXBWC," Banky's clever enigma for "Booty call. Bring Whipped Cream." Hooper sighed and grabbed his keys.  
  
***  
  
9:15  
  
Hooper seldom ventured into New Jersey, and when he had to, he thought it best to spend the least time in the public as possible. The people there either were obsessed with Star Wars or had post-Bon Jovi mall hair. Luckily, there was a convenience store right off the expressway that carried the... *ahem*... essentials. Despite the wiseass behind the counter and the other wiseass doing God-knows-what *under* the counter, it was pretty convenient. Although, they never seemed to have Gatorade.  
  
Hoop parked his car in the tiny lot, just as one of the clerks walked out the store door. "Hey," Hooper said, walking to the door, "where are you going?"  
  
"We're closed," Clerk With Goatee replied.  
  
"It's nine o'clock! How can you be closed? You're a convenience store?"  
  
The clerk shrugged. "Try 'Stop-'n-Go'; they're open all night."   
  
"Do they have whipped cream?"  
  
"Geez, I dunno know! For Christ sakes, just go, okay?" the clerk whined.  
  
Clerk With Hat walked out from the seedy store next door. He was reading the back of some video called "Jane of All Trades" with a picture of a very masculine Pamela Anderson look-a-like. "Hey Date! Your mom home tonight? I got this tape that would spice-" The clerk decided to look up and acknowledged Hooper's smirk and the other clerk's red face. "I don't who you are, Shaft, but we're fuckin' closed."  
  
Hooper, taking much offense from the "Shaft" remark, bitched out, "Honey, just because a brother wears leather doesn't mean he's all black and mighty. For all you know, I could be a Daddy ready to spank your ass."  
  
"Well, I don't know if you're ready for all this jelly, Beyonce." The son of a bitch replied.   
  
"Tst! Your white-ass is a two-by-four, you Puck Fuck!"  
  
"Your derriere doesn't live up to stereotype, neither. Let me think of another point of anatomy that doesn't either. Your-"  
  
"Shut the fuck up! Jesus!" Clerk With Goatee shouted. "It's late."  
  
"It's nine!" Hoop refuted.  
  
"And we're closed and going home," Goatee continued.  
  
"Not if I have anything to do with it." Hooper leaned toward the clerk. "We are both after the same thing, buddy. If I don't go inside, I don't get any and neither do you, because you're going to sit tight with me until opening. 'kay?"  
  
"Come on. Make it quick." Goatee started unlocking the shop.   
  
"Wait, you're going to let this asshole in?" Hat bursted out.  
  
Goatee glared at Hat in such a manner that said, "Many things can be sacrificed for a grudge, a good fuck is not one of them." Hat saw the logic in this, and followed them inside.  
  
  
  
Hooper walked straight to the refrigerator, picked out two canisters of "Spray 'n Whip," a generic Cool Whip with a questionable title. Hoop sauntered over to the "Adult" aisle, grabbing a tube of "Slippery When Wet Lubricant (TM)" and a pack of "Everybody's Wearin' 'Em" brand condoms.   
  
Fucking New Jersey.  
  
"Will that be all?" Goatee droned as Hooper approached the counter.   
  
"A pack of Virginia Slims and some Nails, please," Hoop snarked, peeling out a fifty. "Can you break this?"  
  
Goatee snatched the bill.  
  
"Hey, you're going to Banky Edwards'," Hat said.   
  
"Yeah, how'd you know?" Hooper replied, with mild interest.   
  
"Anyone who buys whipped cream and condoms about to fuck Banky. It's an odd kink of his I've noticed these past ten years. Weirdest thing."  
  
"This coming from a hermaphroditic porn fan?" Hooper said leaving the store.  
  
***  
  
9:32  
  
Hooper was pretty proud of his new ride. It was a maroon-ish Escalade with 21's. It wasn't exactly the Fagmobile, but it was expensive and that made Hoop feel good. He cruised down the road, trying to remember where he turned. All of a sudden, four dim lights flicked on in the distance. Hooper continued driving until he came close enough to see what was going on. A Dodge Shadow and a Monte Carlo had been in a collision and the drivers were now duking it out. Blocking the entire road. Hoop put it in park and hopped out.  
  
He tucked his nine-millimeter in his jacket's inner pocket. Banky couldn't understand why Hooper kept it, especially after his "to thyne self be true" speech, but the gun held some sentimental value. Plus, tiny black queers need some protection in Bumfuck, New Jersey.   
  
Hooper approached the two cars. Two men were fighting while two others stood behind them. Hoop stood back, seeing that he was only the same size as one of them, and the others could probably kick his ass. But... he was horny as hell, and sick of the delays. Hooper put on the "black face," as Banky called it, and sauntered over.   
  
"Hey, what's going on?" Hooper yelled.  
  
He was expecting them to tell him to fuck off or something, but they just stared at him in shock.   
  
"Holy shit," the guy with the Dixie Cup murmured.  
  
"My God," the Unabomber looking guy muttered.  
  
The little guy looked liked he was going to cry as if Hooper was Jesus or Justin Timberlake, and the other guy looked perplexed at the others' behavior.   
  
"It's..." Dixie Cup said.  
  
"It's..." Unabomber said.  
  
"Hooper X," they said in awe.  
  
"Who?" The Other Guy asked.  
  
Hoop chuckled to spite himself and because his situation was pretty damn funny. Fans still recognized him but never white fans. He didn't even know there was a substantial white demographic for a comic named "White-Hating Coon." Still, he didn't know how to approach the situation as Hooper X without pissing them off. He didn't worry long, Unabomber began talking.  
  
"Mr. X, I supported your comic and the movement since issue one. I even sold them in our store. I want to say-"   
  
Dixie Cup pushed him to the side. "Man, nobody goes to your piece shit store! At mine, it sells almost as much as 'Fagman!'" And I publicized 'Coon' like hell on my show! I would've had him on there if the network said yes. And that's why I left-- gentrification! Shit, if they let George Clooney on every..."  
  
Hooper tuned out. He peered at Dixie Cup, noticing who he was.  
  
"Brodie Bruce?"   
  
"Yeah, Brother!"  
  
Hooper switched to "black voice." "A-salaam Alaikum."  
  
"Hell yes!"  
  
Unabomber shoved Brodie over. "Mr. X I assure you that Walt and I have been reading much longer than poseur has-beens like him."  
  
Little One, Walt yelled, "Tell him, Steve-Dave!"   
  
"This commercial moron was still reading 'Bluntman and Chronic' when Maleekwa battled John Smith in issue fourteen!"  
  
Brodie came back into the action. "I think someone's feeling a little inferior after their store is not number one anymore."  
  
"Go back to the mall!"  
  
"Jesus, can we just exchange insurance numbers and go home?" The Other Guy asked Brodie.  
  
"Not until these tools get what's coming to them!" Brodie replied.  
  
"Ooh, trouble in paradise?" Walt teased.  
  
"Shouldn't you two be playing 'Naked Robber?'" Brodie said.  
  
Steve-Dave lunged at Brodie, tackling him to the ground. Brodie kicked Steve-Dave on the back of his knee, and pushed him off. It appeared to Hooper that they forgot he was there. Although he was enjoying the fight, he really wanted to get some. "Stop the fighting! You are Brothers. Now if you want me to autograph anything..."   
  
Walt and Steve-Dave, and Brodie ran to their respective cars to grab something for him to sign. The Other Guy stood still. "Not a fan?"  
  
"I don't read comic books. But... hey, don't I know your voice from somewhere?"  
  
Hoop deepened his voice. "No."  
  
"Yeah. Hey, you're from that cartoon on MTV... what is it... 'Fagman!' You're Lamont!"  
  
Hooper sighed. There really was no fighting this one. "Guilty, but don't tell your friends over there."  
  
The two men shook hands. "I wouldn't. They think it's a piece of crap."  
  
"That's great to know."   
  
"Well, my name's T.S., by the way."  
  
"Hooper Lamont."  
  
The three fans retreated, pushing to get to Hooper. After getting signed, Walt asked, "What are you doing in New Jersey?"  
  
"I came to visit a friend."  
  
"Who? I know everybody in the Tri-Town area," Brodie asked.  
  
Hoop decided to be bold and told them the truth.  
  
"You're friends with that guy?" asked Steve-Dave.  
  
"You could say that. I better get going. Would you move your vehicles?"  
  
"Oh, yeah. Come on, Walt."  
  
"Steve-Dave, this is better than when Stan Lee came to the mall!"  
  
"Sure, see ya, Brother."  
  
"See ya, Brodie. Bye, T.S."  
  
***  
  
10:16  
  
Hooper was lost like a Mormon on the UPN. He was pretty sure when the road turned to gravel and the buildings turned to corn. Hooper shuddered. He wanted to ask for help at one of the farmhouses, maybe use their phone, but the homes appeared to say, "We lynch Niggers here." Hoop took a rain check on being tarred and feathered, and decided to drive until he hit ocean. Whichever one it may be.   
  
Hooper put a CD into the changer, thinking the sounds of Long Beach and Compton would protect him from the big, bad white man. The action worked in reverse, making Hoop paranoid of crashing or there being a silent killer in the back seat. He flipped the stereo, and checked the rear view mirror for any vengeful civil war veterans.   
  
Hooper was driving on the old country road where every campfire tale took place. It was the kind of road that city kids were secretly afraid of. In New York, they are cocky and independent; but put an urbanite in the farm domain and he will shite his pants. People fear what they do not know; thus the urban legend. In rural and suburban areas, folks speak of gang initiations with broken taillights, and giant sewer rats that eat babies. In the metropolises, people discuss all-American babysitter escapades, and misadventures at Makeout Point. As logic dictates, Hooper was terrified of wide-open spaces.  
  
Hooper glanced to his right. In the middle of the cornfield, a man with a pitchfork looked angrily at the road. Hoop did a double take, and looked back at cornfield. The eerie farmer turned into a friend of a friend-- a simple scarecrow. Hooper regained his breath and composure. His eyes returned to the road, but not quickly enough. He saw only the man bounce over the dashboard.   
  
Hoop wanted to get out and see if the guy was all right, but he was scared to beat all hell. He backed onto the sad excuse for a shoulder and reversed until his headlights shone on the pile of human. Hooper grimaced as he stared at the guy. He wasn't bleeding, nor did he appear to be breathing.   
  
"Oh, shit," Hoop murmured. He returned to the victim, and saw him begin to wheeze. His lungs filled and emptied in rapid motion. Hoop sat enamored, when the guy's jacket flew off. A white wing pumped up and down, violently. Hooper's first reaction was to run *it* over again and again till it was part of the road. Instead, he glared at it in shock. The wing dropped to the ground in defeat.  
  
Hooper stepped out of the SUV, brandishing his gun. He tiptoed over to the *thing*. He harrumphed loudly. No response. Hoop angled the nine mil above the creature and scratched its wing. No response.  
  
"Are... you... dead?" Hoop asked.   
  
A shadow towered over Hoop. He shuddered, not daring to turn. The shadow leaned down to his ear and whispered, "They never are." Hooper spasmed, sending his finger to the trigger and the blank to the boom.   
  
"Oh, bloody hell! Did you have to set that off?" the creature whined, getting up from the gravel. "First, you hit me with your car, and now you fire that thing!"   
  
Hooper wanted to feel scared, he wanted to get his faggy ass out of there, but his feet were glued down. He felt strangely calm around the creature, and was pretty sure the other one wouldn't hurt him with it standing by. It was like when he drank for the first time. Hoop was at Eddie Mason's house and he knew that Eddie wouldn't do anything to him if he got too caught up. Granted, he spent most of that time getting a blowjob from Eddie.   
  
  
  
"Christ, I'm getting a headache from all this!" the creature continued.   
  
"Now, you're a cranky one, Voice," the shadow said, emerging. He wore a white suit with a matching fedora. He smirked with a wry sadness, like Banky could. "You would think the all-mighty Metatron would be a bit more gracious to a poor mortal. Weren't you the on J-walking?"  
  
The creature didn't seem to have a comeback for this.  
  
"Precisely, Voice." He walked to Hooper and wrapper an arm around his shoulder. "Well, sir. Shall we exchange insurance numbers?" He turned out his pockets and searched his socks. He took his fedora off, revealing two scars the size of quarters on opposite sides of his forehead. He fished around in the hat, then found a scrap of paper. "Always in the last place you look," he said, handing a stunned Hooper the paper.  
  
Hooper took a gander at the slip, seeing that it read "666." The Rat Packer winked.  
  
"God, not that gag. You've been doing that longer than Joseph and 'snoo,'" the creature groaned.   
  
"What's snoo?" the other chuckled.  
  
"Har har. I'd be a bit more grateful, if I were you. You are one of the lucky."  
  
"One of the *chosen*, and don't forget it. I didn't hit the lucky lotto, I was handpicked by the Boss. And I'm grateful, believe it. Hell, I'm even repentant. I'm everything He wants me to be, because I'm not lost."  
  
"You sure as hell aren't found, either."  
  
"Angels are like this. Even before the uprising, you all looked down on us. You treated the abstracts like we weren't worth anything. And you hate humans. You take their lives like picking daisies."  
  
"You're one to talk. You almost wiped out all of existence!"  
  
The other grew quiet.   
  
"I'm sorry," the "Voice" said.  
  
Hooper didn't know what was going on and didn't think that hanging around would prove beneficial. He backed into the Escalade and drove off. Fast.  
  
***  
  
11:27  
  
Hooper decided that those guys were cult members and that he should really forget the whole affair. He found a black person he could ask directions and was off once more. He turned on Truxel, and cozied into Mobile. The Escalade was fly, but it went through gas like it was going out of style.   
  
Hoop popped inside, paid and bought an ice cream sandwich. When he returned to his baby, two punks were *sitting* on the hood. He sprinted to the automobile, cursing himself for not bringing his gun with. But he was black, and that was weapon enough sometimes. "Yo! What you doing on my fucking car?"  
  
"Huh-ooooop!"  
  
Oh Jesus. It was Jay and Silent Bob, Hooper's favorite homoerotic heroes, who insist on call him their nigger. Jay felt that he could confide in him (as they both thought themselves as gay black men), leading many of their chats to the subject of Jay tea-bagging Silent Bob. Hoop continued to the car, regretting ever coming to New Jersey.   
  
"What's up, what's up, what's up, my nigger!" Jay yelled.  
  
"Nothing much."  
  
"Man, you look like a piece of shit. You coming to see Banky? Yeah, it fuckin' blows driving from New York. It takes a long ass time. It sucks being in those long-distance relationships. I once went with this girl Justice who was doing time for burglary and conspiracy and shit. It went well for a while, then she told me to stop smoking. She was saying that it was against the fucking law! Those cocksuckers had gone all Clockwork Orange on her! After that, I broke it off, 'cause all a playa needs is some smokes and some fuck. And I get all three with Silent Bob. Yo, you want a hit?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
"Hey Lunchbox! You gonna bogart that joint all night? Here."  
  
Hoop inhaled, bringing coughs and tears out. Damn, the last time he smoked was with... Eddie Mason. That kid lived in some house.  
  
"Strong shit, huh? It's from Canada. Nigger, that's the best place to get weed. They grow it in these labs and the boarders are looser than Alyssa Jones' panties."  
  
Normal Hooper would have defended Alyssa, but High Hooper found that fucking hilarious. Hooper climbed onto the hood of the Escalade and sat next to Jay.  
  
"Dude, I was talking to this chick Bethany, right? And she was saying how I should stop cussing and shit and was all saying that I was being too negative about it and that the Metatron-"  
  
"The Metatron?" Hoop asked.   
  
"You know him, too? That fucking guy. He says I serve no purpose. I serve tons of purpose! Limey bitch. Thinks 'cuz he got an in with the Almighty that he's exempt and shit. That guy's all pissy 'cuz I saved the world alls he did was fuckin' watch."  
  
"What?"  
  
"He comes stormin' in here again with that Sinatra-looker, sayin' I shouldn't tell nobodies about it. Dick."   
  
Silent Bob passed Hoop the joint. "It's a long story," Bob said, "that we'd rather not disclose."  
  
"Oh," said Hoop mid-toke.  
  
"And I don't think the Voice would appreciate us spreading the dogmatic slip-up. He's getting enough shit about it from Azrael. But it's kind of ironic after Metatron got him picked."  
  
Hoop passed it back to Bob, very much in a daze.   
  
"You okay to drive?" Bob asked.  
  
"Uh huh."  
  
"We'll see ya." Bob dragged Jay off the car and they wandered away.  
  
***  
  
11:49  
  
Hooper circled the apartment building for the fifth time, looking for a good parking space. Although it was always difficult to park at Banky's, the marijuana in Hooper's bloodstream made him a tad less concentrated on the task. He circle once more and found a spot in front of the building. Hoop walked to the vestibule, and pressed the button marked "EDWARDS, B." in blue Sharpie. "It's me," he drolled into the intercom. The door kicked back and Hoop entered.   
  
Hoop lumbered up to the second floor, dragging his heels. He knocked half-heartedly on Banky's door. It swung open, Banky standing in the frame.  
  
"Where've you been?" he asked, returning inside.  
  
Hooper followed, dropping his jacket on the couch. "Believe me. You don't want to know." 


End file.
